


god is real (he was sleeping in my bed last night)

by zeitgeistofnow



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, Trans Ernst Robel, apparently i have a thing for describing ernst as ethereal/angel-like, but then i forgot how the scene went and just ran with what i'd already written, discussions of religion, i don't know what's up with that, this is inspired/based on a scene from boy erased, title changed from modern art museum (of the modern kiss goodbye)!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 14:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16767013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistofnow/pseuds/zeitgeistofnow
Summary: mr. rilow is back in his town (and it really is his town, hanschen thinks) but his influence in hanschen's life is pervasive, like some kind of magic spell.hanschen goes to the art show for a distraction (from his feelings, maybe, from everything else) but that's not really what he finds.[ahh sorry summaries are so hard!]





	god is real (he was sleeping in my bed last night)

The paintings are on the far wall, huge and eye-catching, all neons and strings of ones and zeros. A neon-green Jesus is being crucified in one, another shows the Virgin Mary (Hanschen thinks that’s who it is, anyway. He doesn’t remember there being many women in the bible). He doesn’t want to look at them- he normally avoids any religious art like the plague- but he’s drawn to them.

He snags an hour d'oeuvre on his way over, popping it into his mouth. It’s something weird and expensive- a wild rice cracker with goat cheese and salmon and probably caviar and whatever else on it. Not bad, not something he’s been into since high school.

The paintings are even bigger up close, and Hanschen avoids Jesus’s eyes. The painting is clearly from right before he dies, and the artist managed to imbed anguish into his eyes, even through the internet-age colors and artistic glitches. It makes Hanschen uncomfortable, but, he supposes, that’s what his father always warned him about. The life of a heathen and all that. There’s a plaque next to the art, designating the artist as _Ernst Robel,_ discussing the meaning of the art and the impact his personal life had on the works.

“What do you think?” It’s a voice that seems bold at first, but Hanschen’s an expert at listening, and it’s also a voice that’s spent time in front of a bathroom mirror, convincing itself to speak. Probably the artist.

“They’re incredible,” Hanschen says- truthfully. “Eyecatching.”

“I tried.”

Hanschen turns around, offers his hand (remnants of manners from years ago, business dinners with his father, _don’t you look just like a little businessman_ ). “Hanschen Rilow.”

The man is almost half a foot taller than Hanschen, and he looks greatly embarrassed by the fact. He’s white, and his hair is shoulder length, mostly pulled back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck. He looks uncomfortable in the tunic-like dress shirt he’s wearing. “Ernst Robel.” He waves slightly in lieu of shaking Hanschen’s hand, and Hanschen is off-put and relieved.

They talk about the paintings, discussing Ernst’s techniques- it all goes over Hanschen’s head, admittedly, but Ernst’s face lights up when he talks about the details of his work- the metaphors and the colors and the layering. He’s fun to talk to, and enthusiastic, chattering about whatever Hanschen brings up. Once Ernst is ready to leave (there are only a few people there for him: a group of girls, a guy with a boat on his t-shirt, a short, morose boy who at least seems enthusiastic about the art) and Hanschen has eaten more wild rice crackers than he feels strictly comfortable with, they go back to Ernst’s together. It’s just a few blocks down, past an Italian restaurant and a bookstore and a pizza place and three cafes.

The space is small and dimly lit, a dark red lamp in the corner illuminating the entire room. It has the potential for light, though, string lamps nailed to the walls and clusters of lamps around the room. There’s a drafting table, photos and sketches strewn across it. Hanschen examines one and Ernst stands in the middle of the room, arms at his sides.

He doesn’t turn on any of the lights, so they both stand there, neither sure if speaking is the best course of action. Ernst is bathed in the red lamplight- ethereal, Hanschen thinks, the word coming to him out of nowhere. He doesn’t notice that he’s still holding the photograph (it’s of a statue in a nearby park and Ernst is clearly not a photographer, you can see his thumb) until Ernst takes it from him gently.

“It was an idea,” he murmurs, “but I don’t think I’ll go through with it.”

Hanschen nods like he understands how the photo is an idea (was Ernst going to paint the statue? Make a replica sculpture? Do more photography?).

There’s silence. The easy chatter they’d maintained both at the show and on the walk back seems too light for here, in the dark.

“Do you believe in God?” Hanschen asks finally, wrapping a hand around Ernst’s wrist. Ernst doesn’t startle at the contact or the question, just looks contemplative. It’s a bit of an odd question- Ernst paints religious imagery, so he’s probably religious, but Hanschen learned from years of going to church and simply being _him_ that not everyone who goes to church actually believes in God.

“Sometimes,” is Ernst’s response, and Hanschen thinks that’s the best response he could have gotten. “Sometimes I need to believe in Her. Sometimes I can’t.”

“Do you still paint when you don’t?”

“Then I paint other things. Gods on earth.” Ernst smiles slightly. “What about you?”

“I…” Twelve years ago, the answer would have been obvious. Ten years ago, six years ago, four years ago, Hanschen would have recited a paternally-sanctioned answer. But now Hanschen is just staring at this boy, looking at his dark eyes and the galaxies inside them and he knows his answer.

He can’t say it.

Mother _fucker._

He can feel his eyes watering and wow, this is perhaps the worst way this evening could have gone. “Ah. Where’s your bathroom?”

Ernst looks horrified, but he gestures further into the apartment. “There’s a tree on the door.”

Hanschen wants to inquire what he means. He doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, however, knows that his voice will be shaky and choked up. He nods and walks away from Ernst.

Ernst’s kitchen is covered in art supplies (the only hint that it’s been used for something other than a studio is the boxes of cereal on the counter) and his bed is a few feet away, unmade. There are two doors between the kitchen and the makeshift bedroom, and one has a painted tree on it, the branches reaching past the frame. Hanschen shoves open the door and closes it. Leans back against the door.

He flicks on the light switch and blinks against the sudden onslaught of white light. He can see himself in the mirror from here. It’s a gigantic mirror, actually, taking up the entire wall opposite the door.

There are twin tear tracks running down each side of his face, and his mascara is running and Jesus fuck he always knew he was a mess, but starting to cry in front of this guy is probably a new low. And it’s not like the question should have been unexpected- he asked Ernst if he believed in God.

Deep fucking breaths.

Hanschen slides down the door and wow, he can still see himself in the mirror. It’s floor length, apparently. How nice.

His mirror at home was floor length, in a walk-in closet filled with greyblacknavy suits and dress shoes and ties.

“Are you okay?” There’s a quiet _thunk_ as Ernst sits down on the other side of the bathroom door.

Hanschen swallows. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

The silence is pervasive and there’s so much light in the tiny bathroom. Hanschen feels like he’s suffocating, staring at his reflection, but the light switch is just out of reach.

“Do you want to talk?”

“God, no.” Hanschen leans his head back against the door. “I just-”

“I think you should talk.” Ernst’s voice isn’t disapproving, just firm.

More silence.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Hanschen finally mutters. “I feel like I’m just running, but I’m not even running properly.”

“I can’t say I know what you mean.”

“My father.” Hanschen feels like he’s spitting the word, but it comes out just as soft as everything else. He sounds like a wounded puppy and he hates it. “I came all the way out here to get away from him-” he’s everywhere in Hanschen’s hometown, has his fingers in every single pie, “- but I still feel like he’s constantly peering over my shoulder.” He inhales sharply. “And it’s worse, too, because every single time I can _feel_ what choice he’d want me to make, and it’s just _so_ easy to do that. Yeah, I believe in God. I’m majoring in Econ. I’ll find some nice quiet girl and settle down.” Hanschen examines his hands, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “He’s paying for my college. So I can’t just _leave.”_

“I’m sorry.” Ernst doesn’t sound like that’s all he’s going to say, so Hanschen doesn’t continue, just stares at his reflection. “I know what that’s like.” He laughs sadly. “I couldn’t pretend, though. It would have been a miracle if I’d gotten this far. I failed math all through high school, and then, y’know. I started hanging out with people my parents didn’t quite _agree_ with, started acting more masculine- more like me- than they were comfortable with, and that was the end of that.”

“I’m sorry,” Hanschen says, and he means it, which surprises him. Ernst is a virtual stranger, but he feels closer to him than half his college friends.

“It helped me decide where I wanted to be. Who.” Ernst corrects himself. “And I like the result. I mean, maybe I’m not always completely comfortable with it, but I don’t expect to be.” A pause. “Your father’s not here, Hanschen.”

Like Hanschen doesn’t know that. Like he doesn’t remind himself of that every morning.

“You can be who you want to be- you can take the time to figure that out. I’ll- I’ll help you.” Ernst stutters on his last sentence, and it’s just a bit absurd, but it’s so nice. Hanschen can’t help but grin.

“Thank you.”

“Are you feeling any better?” Ernst asks softly.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Makeup wipes are in dresser next to the sink. Second drawer from the bottom.” Ernst offers.

“Thanks.”

“Of course. I’m going to change. My binder is actually killing me. You know, I don’t usually wear it, but it’s a fancy event and stuff, and it’s people I don’t know and who I won’t get to know better and I’m just going to feel better if I don’t get misgendered fifty-some times at my own art show, right?” Ernst keeps chattering (his voice gets louder and softer as he moves around the bigger room to change) as Hanschen wipes off his makeup.

When he emerges, Ernst is sitting on his bed in an oversized t-shirt and boxers. He smiles tentatively at Hanschen.

Hanschen smiles back. He thinks about winking but decides against it. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

They fall asleep together, fingers intertwined, legs tangled together. It’s one of the best night’s sleep Hanschen’s had in ages.

(“ _I absolutely refuse to have sex with you when you were just crying in my bathroom.”_

_“Tomorrow?”_

_“Take me to dinner first.”_

_“Of course.”)_

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading!! i hoped you liked it :D
> 
> comments/kudos Make My Day


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